Page 8 of A Lady’s Guide to Witchcraft

Chapter Four

Briar had miscalculated.

Of course, she had.

For all her cheeky comments and false courage, being abducted by the Dragon was not a good idea. Even when it was the only idea she had. Maybe especially then.

She knew it when Ethan dismounted and reached up to close his big, scarred hands around her waist, helping her slide to the ground.

She knew it when he released the horses, slapping their rumps to set them running back down the road into town. It only made sense that they were stolen—what did Iron Crows with the scent of the sea on them need with horses?

She knew it when they reached the end of the dock, painted white and hung with lanterns but far from the boardwalk and pleasure boats preferred by tourists. So far away that they may as well have been in Cornwall. There was no one to see them, to save her.

She knew it most of all when confronted with a ship painted maroon and sky-blue, hung with glittering glass witch globes for protection and with a figurehead carved into the likeness of a dragon. It was fully rigged, with three towering masts and cannons not often seen on the shores of Lyonesse. Especially during the Midsummer Festival. She’d wager that even Holdfast, with its darker magics, home to All Hallows ceremonies and the guardians of the dead, had not seen their like.

Briar gulped. There was nothing but sand and sea and wooden planks to respond to her magic. If she tried very, very hard, she might manage to get seaweed to stir. She wasn’t sure what good that would do her, with Ethan at her back and the black sea before her. She was as likely to get eaten by a mermaid as rescued by one. The kelpies would absolutely murder her.

It had seemed like such a clever idea at the time.

Ethan paused at the end of the gangplank, angling a sidelong glance in her direction. She forced her chin up again. It was still a good idea. She was here and Petal was safe, wasn’t she? That was the point. No way out but through.

She stepped on the gangplank, teetering slightly. Her hip ached deep in the joint after her falling to the ground and then being jostled about on a horse. Ethan reached out a big hand to steady her. “Easy.”

Wind tugged at her dress. The rest of his crew paused to watch them. “That her, Dragon?” someone called out.

“Aye.”

“We’ll make ready.”

She did not like the sound of that.

She scowled up at Ethan. “Ready for what, exactly?”

“Hmm. Time enough for that.”

Fear twined with the exhilaration of successfully keeping her sister safe, edged with the annoying, primal curiosity she felt for this large, dangerous man. There was so much to see and take note of; from whether or not she could jump the distance between the ship and the dock and if her hip would let her swim the cold, dark waters to shore. Instead, she could not stop looking at him. He was both a threat and an escape, the wind and the anchor. Briar knew it in her blood.

She worked to remember what else she knew about him, now that the last of the sleep-spell murkiness was clearing from her head, washed away by the salt wind and her body’s utterly inconvenient and embarrassing response to Ethan. The Dragon, Iron Crow and scoundrel, thief and ship’s captain.

Iron Crows were known for skirting the line between the magic of witches and warlocks, between asking and taking. The Order of the Iron Nail spent as much time tracking them as it did needing their help in taking down warlocks who would drain a witch of her magic. So might an Iron Crow, for the right price. Witch society wasn’t sure what to do with an Iron Crow.

Neither was Briar.

Ethan Swansea spent most of his time on his ship, purported to have power over the sea itself. There were stories of love affairs with mermaids, some dodgy business with a stolen heirloom, and killing a man in Scotland on behalf of a selkie woman who may or may not have been his stepsister. He was banned from the Goblin Market in London and so was known to pull his ship right up to the bridge to buy and sell his magical wares, from werewolf teeth to the ashes of a witch’s funeral bonfire. He was ruthless, dangerous, determined.

And he was trying to feed her a strawberry scone.

He had led her into his cabin, which sent another frisson through her. Fear or more curiosity? Fear, definitely fear.

Bollocks.

He hadn’t touched her except to brush against her, his breath against her cheek when he dipped his head too near, the warmth of him stirring the very air around her. The captain’s cabin was neat and tidy, with very little ornamentation except for a shelf of wood whittled into the shapes of mermaids and kelpies and krakens. Candles flickered in tin lanterns swinging from the ceiling, more witch glass at the windows, swirling with glittering colors.

He offered her a chair with a red embroidered cushion. And a plate of scones, fresh strawberries, clotted cream. It only sharpened her disorientation. “You’re trying to feed me?” she asked, confused. “Why?”

“I need you strong, don’t I?”

“Why?” It was sheer madness to wonder what he needed her strong for, and if a great deal less clothing might be involved. Blame the anxiety of being kidnapped. Kidnapping herself. The last vestiges of the sleep spell. His imperfectly perfect face.